


Despair

by TazzyJan



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 00:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12693498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TazzyJan/pseuds/TazzyJan
Summary: An enemy exacts revenge on Aramis.For Snow_Glory who wanted Aramis hurt.  I think I might have overdone it a bit.





	Despair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snow_Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snow_Glory/gifts).



Consciousness returned slowly and with it a jumble of memories each more horrific than the last. Aramis jerked his head up, his eyes flying open. The inky blackness that greeted him made him gasp, or try to at least. He remembered then, as pain lanced all along his mouth, he remembered. They had tied him down and still it had taken three of them to hold him in place enough for them to sew his lips shut. He could remember the feel of it, of the needle piercing his lips over and over, of the thread being pulled though, of his mouth being sealed shut as they looked down at him and laughed.

Things became a bit fuzzy again after that. He recalled being bound to a whipping post, choking on his own screams as they had taken turns flogging him. He had blacked out more than once but they had simply waited for him to come around, taunting him, saying if he just _asked nicely_ they would stop. 

When they threw him down across a table and took his boots, he had started to fight again as much as his weakened body could. He managed to kick one of them which only earned him another painful set of lashes across his already lacerated back. They fell upon him then, men grabbing onto his arms and legs, holding him helplessly to the table. He had been scared, unsure what was to be done to him next. He did not have to wait long to find out. 

Without warning, he felt a blistering fire along the sole of his right foot. He tried to jerk away from the source of heat but he was held firm. He could do nothing but moan and shake as whatever it was moved all along his foot, burning and blistering as it went. When the flame was finally taken away, Aramis had only a moment’s reprieve before the same searing agony was pressed to his other foot. He tried to beg then, he truly did, unable to withstand any more but his words came out as little more than unintelligible moans. 

That was the last somewhat clear memory he had before awakening here. Wherever here was. Trying his best to keep his rising panic at bay, Aramis took stock of his situation. Wherever he was, it was dark. He could see nothing, not even a hint of light or shadow. A thick, metal collar encircled his throat forcing him to keep his head up lest he choke himself. How he had managed not to do so while unconscious he had no idea. They must have positioned him quite carefully to ensure he did not accidentally suffocate. Aramis shuddered at the thought, for that spoke of a level of sadism that was nearly unfathomable. 

Forcing his mind from that, he returned to taking stock of his current condition. He was sitting on a hard, cold floor. Much harder and colder than earth would be. His lacerated back was pressed into what felt like rough stone. His arms were spread out wide to either side and shackled tightly in place giving him no room to move at all. His legs were likewise spread wide and shackled in place at the ankles, his feet still bare. He thought that last rather a blessing as his feet throbbed painfully from the burns that had been inflicted upon them. Even if he could find a way to free himself, he would not be walking out of here, that much was certain.

And that thought brought with it a myriad of questions. Where, exactly, was here? Who were these people and why had they taken him? What did they want from him? Did they want anything at all really or were they simply looking to see how long they could torture him before he died? 

Did his brothers know he was missing? 

Were they looking for him? 

_Would_ they look for him?

The last was the question that tore at Aramis the most. For his brothers had been less than pleased with him of late. He had to wonder if they might not use this as an excuse to finally be rid of him. After all, they had d’Artagnan now, they didn’t really need him. They never really needed him in the first place. He was just rather handy at talking them out of trouble when Athos drank too much or Porthos was a tad too obvious with his cheating. 

Shaking his head as much as his restrictive bonds would allow, Aramis pushed those thoughts away angrily. He must have been hit on the head to be thinking such nonsense. Of course his brothers would come for him. They would always come for him. He just had to hold on. They would find him. Wherever he was.

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

Aramis jerked awake, his lips tugging painfully as he tried to cough. He had nodded off again, his head slumping forward causing the metal collar to bite into this throat unforgivingly and set off yet another round of stifled coughing. He felt tears of futility sting his eyes as pain, exhaustion and no small amount of fear all warred for dominance within him. 

Leaning his head back against the cold, stone wall, he forced himself to breathe through his nose as evenly as he could. Giving in to panic would not help. Hyperventilating would only cause him to pass out and strangle himself once more, repeating the vicious cycle. He only wished he knew who these people were, what he had done to deserve such cruelty. 

He tried not to think about his prison, how big or small it might be. He had long since given up any hope of his eyes adjusting to the darkness. It was quite clear that there was no light to be had here. Only inky blackness, like the heart of damnation. It made it seem as if the very walls were closing in on him, as if the room was no bigger than the space he occupied. For all he knew, that could very well be true. For all he knew, this could very well be his tomb. 

Would he be missed, he wondered? He had not a single paramour at the moment, not that any of them truly cared for him beyond the pleasure and diversion he afforded them. And being a soldier, he had never formed any lasting attachments. There was no one to lament his passing from this earth. Was that to be his fate? To die here, discarded and forgotten, as if he had never existed at all? Was this God’s punishment for all the lives he had taken? A fitting end for a wasted life?

As the hours drudged slowly onward, Aramis tried to gauge how long he had been imprisoned. With no light source it was hard to tell. Judging by his state of thirst and ravenous gnawing in his belly, he would guess about a day had passed, though no more than two. He was a soldier and fit but he had been sorely used. If no one came, he could probably last another three or four days like this, assuming infection or some other malady didn’t kill him first. That thought made Aramis shudder. Three or four days didn’t seem like a long time until you had been whipped and burned and chained against a wall in a black pit of a room to slowly die.

With little else to do, he began running through everyone he could possibly think of with either the means or the motivation to orchestrate something of this magnitude. By the time he was finished, he was exhausted. He was also down to a surprisingly short list of suspects and when he added in the level of sadism needed to carry out such acts, the list dwindled to a mere handful. Even the Cardinal, as despicable as he was, did not strike him as capable of this level of casual cruelty. No, Richelieu would have already had him killed if he were behind this. He needed to look elsewhere for the villain of this particular piece. 

As carefully as he could, Aramis leaned his head to the side, attempting to support it on his shoulder. He was perilously close to passing out from sheer exhaustion. If he did that, there was no guarantee he would not suffocate in his sleep. While he might indeed find that thought appealing a few days from now were he to still find himself in this predicament, he was not quite ready to give up yet. 

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

Aramis wasn’t sure how long he had managed to sleep before something woke him once more. He wanted to sob, his exhaustion like a living thing inside of him that pulsed in time with the beating of his heart. In his frustration, he pounded his head against the stone wall behind him, the sharp pain a counter-point to the unrelenting ache within. It was then, as the bright spark of pain brought with it a moment of clarity, that he realized what had woken him. 

Rats.

He felt the brush of one against his blistered foot and jerked, causing a wave of nauseating pain to shoot up his leg even as the movement sent the rat scurrying back to wherever it came from. Listening closely, Aramis could hear them then, moving about. He couldn’t tell how many there were, whether it was twenty or a hundred and twenty. He wasn’t altogether sure it mattered. Chained down as he was, there wasn’t much he could do to defend himself and it wouldn’t take the rats long to figure that out. Not with the smell of his blood urging them on. 

Knowing the danger of dwelling on such things, Aramis tried to distract himself. As the hours wore on, it was getting harder to do. Still, he told himself his brothers would come for him. They would. They simply had not found him yet. That was all. No matter how… displeased… they might be with him of late they would not abandon him to his fate. He knew they would never simply turn their backs on him. And yet, there was no denying that they had done that very thing when the ghosts of Savoy had risen up, very nearly dragging him down alongside Marsac to lie once and for all with their fallen brothers. What made him so sure this time would be different? What made him so sure his brothers had not already washed their hands of him?

Helpless anger suddenly surged through him and Aramis shook his head violently before squeezing his eyes shut and pounding it over and over against the wall behind him. He moaned through his sewn-together lips as tears stung his eyes then berated himself for his display. No wonder the others were tired of him if this was how weak and useless he was. Maybe this was where he belonged after all. A Hell designed especially for him - filled with darkness and vermin, where his silver tongue was finally silenced.

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

Aramis awoke with a muffled cry and a jerk, the movement tugging painfully at the thick thread that trapped his cries in his throat as surely as the shackles about his wrists kept him trapped against the cold, stone wall. The sudden movement had done more than just woken him from his fitful slumber. It had roused the pain in his feet and back, turning it from a growling beast into a roaring monster that threatened to consume what was left of his sanity. 

A moment later a searing jolt of agony lanced up his right foot. Out of reflex, he tried to pull away from the source of it, blinking into the impenetrable gloom in a futile effort to see what it was. He heard a high-pitched squeak and felt matted fur brush against his swollen foot and realized it had been a rat. One of the rats had gotten bold enough to come in for a taste. He knew it would not be long before they grew bolder, not satisfied with a mere taste of him. In his darkest musings, he had never imagined what it would be like to be eaten alive. And by such small attackers, at that. Even if there were dozens of them, it would likely take hours before he finally succumbed, a combination of shock and blood loss doing him in. 

_Have I truly lived so despicable a life to deserve such a fate? I have tried to help people where I could. I have tried to stay true to the God I believe in. I know I have sinned. I know I have been a disappointment, that I have failed those who trusted in me, who depended on me, more than once. Yet, what is the lesson I am to learn from this trial? Or is there no lesson left to learn at all? Is there only this - this unrelenting torment to suffer through until the Devil finally comes for my soul?_

These thoughts and more ran round and round in Aramis’ head, his despair growing with every passing hour. He tried to push them away, thinking of his brothers instead but that only made the yawning pit inside of him seem all the wider. He thought of Athos and recalled the anger in his eyes when he had insisted on questioning Treville over the events of Savoy. He remembered how he had chastised him over Agnes and Henry. He had not meant to run away but he did not know Treville would help them and he would not see her lose her son in an insane woman’s bid for power. He’d only meant to see her safely out of France. He’d had no intention of going with her. 

Thoughts of Agnes brought with them the memory of Porthos and how he had looked at him. His dark eyes had held a combination of exasperation and annoyance, as if they all expected no better of him and he was once again living up, or perhaps down, to them. He could not really blame Porthos, though. In truth, he was lucky Porthos still put up with him at all. After what he had done, the man would have been completely within his rights to have called him out. He had not and for that Aramis was grateful. He was not at all sure he could have brought himself to raise his sword against Porthos, self-defense or not. Better to let the man simply run him through and be done with it. 

Sometimes, when he was lying alone in his bed at night, he almost wished the man had. At least then he would not have to live knowing that everything he had hoped for was now lost to him and by his own hand no less. Still, he would not change that day even if he could. To do so would either see Porthos dead in Charon’s stead or Charon dead by Porthos’ hand. Neither of those things were acceptable to Aramis. Not that it mattered. He could no more go back and change what happened that day than he could five years ago. No, he had to live with the fact that he killed Porthos’ best friend and with him any chance there might have been for something _more_ between the two of them.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Aramis faded in and out of consciousness. He struggled not to give in but his resolve weakened with every passing hour. He could still feel blood oozing sluggishly down his back each time he scraped it anew upon the rough stone. His burnt and blistered feet had gone numb some time ago, and though he was grateful for the respite the medic in him knew that for the sign that it was. Regardless, he would take any relief from the pain he could get at the moment and worry for the repercussions later. As it was, he was not sure how much longer he could hold out. He was not even thirsty any more, yet another bad sign. Besides, what was he fighting so hard to get back to anyway?

He wasn’t sure how long he was out for, but it must have been awhile this time for when he came awake it was to the feel of teeth… teeth sinking into his flesh over and over again as the rats swarmed him at last. He tried to cry out, tried to thrash as much as his restrictive bonds would allow but the rats seemed to sense his helplessness for they ignored his attempts as they focused on their prey. Aramis could feel them biting his feet, the pain coming back ten-fold as they gnawed at his toes. He felt them scamper over his legs and onto his lap then sharp, sharp teeth were digging into his unprotected stomach. Aramis began to silently pray, finally accepting this as his fate and begging God to end his suffering. His brothers were not coming for him. No one was. He was going to die here, eaten alive by vermin. His only reprieve would be if God had mercy on him and allowed his ravaged body to succumb at last.

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

“How is he?” D’Artagnan asked as he pulled up a chair next to Athos. They were sitting on one side of Aramis’ bed with Porthos on the other. 

Aramis himself lay deathly still, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. He had been like this since they had rescued him from that hell hole Marie de Medici had left him to rot in two days ago. D’Artagnan only wished they had realized he was missing sooner. He berated himself for not speaking up days earlier. He had never thought Aramis had run off after Agnes and he should never have waited so long to say so. As it was, it took him over a day to convince Athos and Porthos that something was wrong and they needed to look for the man. 

It had only taken them half a day after that. A drunkard in a tavern bragging about making a Musketeer scream had filled in the missing pieces. It seemed the king’s mother was less than pleased at being denied her final chance at the throne. Somehow she had found out about their involvement and she had chosen Aramis as the one to take her revenge out on. A bit of persuasion on their part and their new “friend” had led them to an abandoned stable with a cellar right on the outskirts of the city. To know that Aramis had been there the whole time, nearly under their very feet, was sickening to the young man. He could only imagine how it must feel to the two older men. 

“No change,” Athos said wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

Aramis was holding his own, but barely. They were keeping the worst of the fever at bay, bathing his body whenever he grew too hot. He tried not to think of the state of his feet, concentrating instead of the mechanics of what needed to be done, changing the dressings and draining the wounds as the doctor had directed. The lacerations on his back were much the same if less severe, as were the ones on his lips. Athos felt his stomach threaten to rebel at the memory of having to cut the thread that bound his friend’s lips together. As for the rats, all they could do was hope that none of them carried any disease. As it was, the smallest toe on Aramis’ left foot had been all but chewed off.

“How are you two fairing?” D’Artagnan asked. He was nearly as worried for the two of them as he was for Aramis. He understood guilt all too well. He knew what it could do to a man and it was clear that his brothers felt a great deal of guilt.

“We weren’t the ones tortured and left chained to a wall to be eaten alive by rats,” Porthos said softly, his eyes never leaving his brother’s prone form. 

“We found him,” d’Artagnan reminded him. “He still lives.”

“For now,” Porthos said darkly.

“He survived, on his own, for days in that Hell hole,” d’Artagnan replied. “Do not give up on him now. You cannot give in to despair, Porthos. Aramis needs you.”

“What Aramis needs is brothers he can depend on, who will not let him down time and again.”

“Porthos...”

“I never said thank you, did I, lad?” Porthos asked changing the subject abruptly. “If not for you, we would never have known what happened to him.”

“Not until what was left of him was dumped on our doorstep,” Athos added darkly. For he knew now that must surely have been her plan. To leave Aramis to rot until he was most certainly dead then take what remained of his ravaged corpse and leave it scattered in the garrison courtyard for them to find. How devastating would it have been for them, to realize the brother they had likely been quite angry with for deserting them, had in fact spent his last days being tortured to death?

“We got him back,” d’Artagnan insisted. “But if all you are doing is waiting for him to die then you have no business being here.”

“Peace, d’Artagnan,” Athos said wearily. He knew the lad was right but he and guilt were old friends. Still, he _was_ right and it was past time he stopped acting like he was sitting at Aramis’ grave rather than his bedside.

D’Artagnan fell silent then, satisfied that some of the despondency had left Athos’ eyes. He wished he could do the same for Porthos, but the only one who could do that was Aramis. He hoped he woke up soon, though. Even briefly would be enough to renew his brothers’ hope as well as ensure that Aramis knew he was safe now, that he was not holding on only to endure yet more pain. Marie de Medici had better pray she never came within his sights. 

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

Aramis could hear voices. They were muffled and indistinct making it hard to discern their words. Their intent, however, was easier read. They were angry, the voices hard and clipped at times. Worse still, they surrounded him. He could practically feel their eyes on him, watching him, waiting for him to rouse so they could visit some fresh atrocity on him. 

Knowing his life very likely depended on it, Aramis kept still. He did his best to keep his breathing slow and even, not wanting to give any indication that he was conscious once more. He tried to force his fevered brain to work, trying to take stock of his situation. He thought he could pick out three different voices, but it could just as easily be two or twenty. Until he opened his eyes, he could not even know for certain if anyone was there at all. The voices could be no more than a product of his fevered mind. Recalling the pitch blackness of his tomb, he decided it wasn’t worth the risk to check. 

As he lay still, trying to take stock of his condition, he realized with a start that he was no longer chained in place. While his limbs felt heavy, far too heavy to even try to move, they were no longer being held in place. Even as he fought not to react he could feel the muscles in his arms aching and throbbing from being held in one position for so long. Once he noticed his limbs were no longer bound, he began to register other things. He was lying in a bed and his wounds, at least some of them, had been bandaged. 

Aramis’ heart began to beat faster as he tried to get his sluggish mind to think. Had he been rescued at last? Or was this all simply to keep him from dying too quickly? Was he safely in the hands of friends or was he still in the clutches of his enemies? Or, worse yet, was this all in his mind, a last ditch effort to protect his sanity from this horror?

He knew he needed to open his eyes. That would give him the answer one way or the other - friend, foe or fantasy. He was scared, though. Terrified, in fact. For of the three possibilities, two would surely break him. He knew he was only delaying the inevitable, being a coward in the face of his fear, but he had truly believed his brothers would come for him. To open his eyes and find out otherwise would end all hope. He didn’t want to open his eyes and find out that was the truth. He didn’t want to open his eyes and find out that his brothers had not come, that they had decided him not worth the effort. Better to lay here in the dark, enjoying the feel of the cool, clean linens. If it was but a mirage, that was fine for now. Any port in a storm, after all.

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

“D’Artagnan, could you fetch some more cool water?” Athos asked. He had watched the fever-flush on his brother’s cheeks grow dark again and knew his fever was rising.

“Of course,” d’Artagnan replied, taking up the basin and hurrying from the room. 

“His fever should have broken by now,” Porthos said as d’Artagnan went to fetch the water. “He can’t take much more of this.”

“We are keeping the worst of it at bay,” Athos said, repeating the instructions the doctor had given them. “It will break.”

“Athos...”

“It will break,” Athos snapped. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get his emotions back under control. D’Artagnan was right when he said they could not give in to despair. Not if they wanted to save their brother.

“Forgive me, Porthos,” Athos apologized. “I did not mean to snap.”

“It’s alright. You’re as exhausted as I am. I don’t mean it to sound like I’m giving up on him.”

“I know. We are none of us giving up on him. Somehow we must ensure he does not give up on himself either.”

“Aramis is a fighter. He won’t give up.”

“And neither shall we.”

When d’Artagnan returned with the water, Athos sat down on the side of Aramis’ bed and began to gently bathe him. D’Artagnan sat down next to Porthos and watched. He was taking such care with the man, cleaning him thoroughly but gently as if unsure if Aramis could stand any more rough handling. D’Artagnan knew he himself could not stand so much as the thought of Aramis enduring any more. How he had hung on as long as he had was surely a miracle. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t suppress a shudder at the memory of how they had found their brother. He had been literally covered in rats, the creatures swarming him. They had used torches to send the things scurry back to their dens and he had braced himself for what he might find. They must have arrived just after the things started in on him for the damage was far less than he had feared with Aramis’ ravaged feet bearing the brunt of the damage.

“I’ll do his feet,” d’Artagnan said, standing up and moving to the foot of Aramis’ bed. He knew how much it pained the others to see the horrible wounds on his feet. Porthos had nearly been sick the first time he had attempted to change the dressing. Athos hadn’t been much better. Still, if they wanted their brother to have any chance at all of walking again, it had to be done.

“Thank you,” Athos said softly. He had bristled the first time d’Artagnan had taken the bandages and basin from him and sat down at Aramis’ feet in his stead. The relief that had washed over him, however, was too great to dismiss and he had simply thanked the lad for his understanding.

“How do they look?” Porthos forced himself to ask once d’Artagnan had Aramis’ feet uncovered. He knew better than to look, the sight more than he could bear. He tried not to think about it, about what it had to have been like for Aramis. Had he known they were coming for him? Or had he finally given up when hour after torturous hour passed and still they did not come? How long had his brother sat alone in that dank, dark pit and contemplated the fate before him? How long had he sat there knowing he was going to die and such a hellish death at that? How long had he thought Porthos not coming for him?

“Better. I think,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s… it’s hard to tell. They are still quite swollen but there is less, ah, fluid coming off of them.”

“They’re not… not turning color, are they?” Porthos asked worriedly.

“No,” d’Artagnan replied at once. The physician had warned them of that, of his feet starting to blacken. He said if that happened to fetch him at once as his feet would need to be removed if he was to have any chance of survival. D’Artagnan tried not to think about that, about Aramis suffering such a fate. To think of Aramis, always so vibrant, crippled and bed-ridden for the rest of days… He simply could not.

“How bad does the scarring look?” Athos asked from where he sat bathing Aramis neck and shoulders. He kept hoping the feel of the cool water on his heated skin would somehow rouse him. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could cling to hope without some sign that their brother was still alive in there. 

“It…” d’Artagnan trailed off, unsure what to say. Swallowing thickly, he tried again. “It does not look good. The scars, they are thick and white. I don’t know how much feeling he’s going to have left in his feet. At least the bottoms, anyway. The tops seem okay except for the rat bites.”

“We shall worry for that when the time comes,” Athos said as serenely as he could manage. Inside, however, he was screaming. Aramis was the kindest, gentlest soul he had ever known. He did not deserve to suffer such atrocities. Forcing his concentration back to the task at hand, Athos told himself that Aramis would be fine, that he would make a full recovery. Surely his God would not allow him to suffer all this only to heap yet more upon him. He knew Aramis would say he deserved it somehow or that it was worth it to see Agnes and her son safe but Athos had to wonder. Was anything truly worth the price Aramis was now paying?

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

Aramis was dreaming. He had to be dreaming to be this comfortable. He could feel a cool cloth wiping softly over his fevered brow and positively ached inside with the desire to open his mouth, to pull that damp cloth between his parched lips. He couldn’t though, and trying would only tug painfully at the thick threat that sewed his lips shut. 

He felt hot tears sting his eyes and clenched them closed even tighter. He could ill afford to lose the moisture of even a few useless tears. He didn’t know why he was still fighting so hard to stay alive. It was no use. No one was coming for him. He was going to die here in this vermin-infested hole, his mind so broken it no longer knew the difference between rough stone and a soft bed.

“Aramis, hey, it’s alright,” Porthos said as he moved from his chair to sit on the edge of his bed. Athos was still on the other side of him patiently stroking a cool, damp cloth over his face while d’Artagnan tended to his feet, covering them in salve before wrapping them in clean bandages. 

He had seen Aramis’ face scrunch up and Porthos knew he was fighting back tears. Glancing at Athos, he saw that the man had not missed his brother’s movement either. Licking his lips and trying not to get his hopes up, he whispered to his brother.

“It’s okay, brother. We’re here now. You’re safe, Aramis. You can wake up. I promise.”

Aramis heard a voice that sounded deceptively like Porthos’. He knew it couldn’t be Porthos, though. His brother had forsaken him. Perhaps… perhaps he was one of the ones that had put him here. He had not thought the others’ displeasure with him so great but he was stupidly optimistic at times. Especially where his brothers were concerned.

“Aramis, come back to us,” Athos whispered, adding his plea to Porthos’. “Please, brother. Just… just open your eyes. You’re safe now, I swear it.”

Aramis frowned, uncertainty tearing at him. It sounded like his brothers. It felt like them as well. It even smelled like them. Knowing it was a mistake, that he would regret it, he slowly opened his eyes. He immediately closed them again when too bright sunlight greeted him rather than the all-encompassing gloom he had expected. Carefully, he opened them again, blinking to clear his vision. A few moments later, he was able to make out the somewhat blurry shapes of Athos and Porthos sitting on either side of him. 

He felt such a surge of relief that it nearly made him sick. His brothers were here. He was safe. He was safe. He was _safe_! He hummed then, trying to ask what happened, where he was, how badly he was hurt, and looked expectantly back and forth between the two men.

“Aramis?” Porthos said, frowning deeply. He didn’t understand at first why Aramis wasn’t saying anything.

“It is alright, brother,” Athos said. He had to push back the sudden anger that gripped him. “It is gone. You… you can speak again.”

Aramis cast frightened eyes at Athos. He could see the sincerity on his face and carefully tried to part his lips waiting for the familiar tug to stop him. When nothing happened, he slowly let his mouth fall open and shuddered as he took in his first deep breath in what felt like months. 

Now that he could open his mouth, he realized how horribly parched it still felt. Casting about, his eyes landed on the pitcher next to the bed and he looked from it to Athos and back again. Athos seemed to understand and quickly filled a mug with water then brought it to his lips. He wanted to blush when Athos had to hold his head up for him to drink then the cool water was filling his mouth and he forgot about everything else.

“Drink it slow,” Athos warned. “Not too much. You don’t want to bring it back up again.” He started to pull the cup away but Aramis made a plaintive sound and Athos simply couldn’t. “Okay. Okay. Just sip it, though.”

Aramis did his best to do as he was told, not wanting them to take the blessed water away. He had been so long without water he had stopped even being thirsty. Now that he’d felt it on his tongue again, though, his thirst came back with a vengeance. Finally, knowing that if he did not stop he truly would be sick, he pulled away from the cup reluctantly. 

“You can have more,” Athos said, correctly guessing one of the reasons for Aramis’ distress. “Whenever you want it. I’ll keep the pitcher right here beside you.”

Aramis nodded his thanks, hoping Athos understood. “Where?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“The garrison,” Athos replied. “You’ve been unconscious for about three days.”

“Ah. Um, who…”

“Who?” Athos repeated, unsure what Aramis was asking.

“Who f-found me?”

“We did, brother,” Porthos said quietly. That Aramis felt the need to ask such a thing, that he did not just assume his brothers had been the ones to find and rescue him, hurt and made him wonder what all had gone on.

“Brother?” Athos called, as puzzled as Porthos was by Aramis’ behavior.

“I, um, I had not thought…” Aramis shrugged then and winced, the lacerations on his back protesting the action. 

“You didn’t think we would come for you?” Athos asked, aghast.

Aramis shrugged again though he kept the movement small. In truth, he had given up hope that his brothers were coming for him. Not that he could blame them. If they had taken his disappearance as an opportunity to be rid of him, well he had only brought it on himself.

“We will always come for you, brother,” Athos vowed. “I am only sorry it took us so very long to find you.”

“Would not blame you…”

“Blame us?” Athos pressed. 

“For wanting to be rid of me,” Aramis explained, looking away so he would not have to meet Athos’ eyes. 

“We never want to be rid of you,” Porthos told him. “We… we love you, Aramis. God, how could you think…”

“Porthos, he is overcome,” Athos said, not wanting Porthos to somehow make Aramis feel worse than he already did. Obviously, something was amiss with their brother. They would find out what it was and they would fix it but they would not do so today. Aramis was exhausted. He needed rest. 

“He thinks we weren’t going to come for him,” Porthos said, appalled at the very idea. No matter what, they would always come for one another. They were brothers. Surely Aramis knew that.

“He was in that pit for days, Porthos,” Athos said gently. “I challenge any of us to endure such horrors and not succumb to despair.”

It wasn’t long before Aramis slipped back into an exhausted sleep. Porthos steadfastly refused to leave his side, unable to stand the thought of his brother awakening without him there. It was bad enough that Aramis already thought they were not coming for him. Porthos would not add to that misconception. 

As he sat by his brother’s bedside, he tried to figure out how Aramis had come to doubt them so. He knew things had been a bit strained between them ever since that business with Charon. He still cringed every time he thought of it. His old friend had been beyond saving, the lure of a life of ease away from the bleakness of the Court too much for him to pass up. Still, he had seen the regret in Aramis’ eyes when he realized he had taken the life of one of Porthos’ oldest friends. He had tried to tell him that he understood, that he didn’t blame him, but every time he tried to broach the subject his words deserted him. To top it off, for whatever reason he felt guilty for sleeping with Flea and it had nothing to do with Charon. 

Even if Aramis was a bit uncertain about where the two of them stood and the Whelp was still new to their brotherhood, he had no idea why he would think Athos would not come for him. They butted heads often enough, but Athos butted heads with everyone. And of all of them, Aramis never held a grudge, seeming to forget the argument even happened five minutes later. That was one of the things that made all of this even harder to bear. Aramis was the kindest, most forgiving man Porthos had ever known. For someone to do this to him, to torture him like this, was sickening. 

As the day turned to night, Porthos found himself nodding off in his chair. Athos offered to take his place but he still refused. He had even offered to have a bed brought over so he could at least lie down but again he had refused. He wanted to be there and waiting when Aramis opened his eyes. Besides, his brother had not had the luxury of a bed in his prison. He had not even been able to move, his arms and legs tethered in place in a way that left him horrifically vulnerable. Considering how long Aramis had suffered while he and Athos had sat drinking in one tavern or another, thinking their brother had simply run off, his discomfort was but a small price to pay.

When morning rolled around, Porthos awoke to the feeling of eyes on him. Looking toward his brother, he was surprised to see Aramis staring back at him. He opened his mouth to speak but just as with Charon he found his words locked in his throat. What was he supposed to say when he was at least partly to blame for the state his brother was in anyway?

“You slept here,” Aramis said, his voice still scratchy. 

“Yeah,” Porthos shrugged as he moved to pour Aramis a mug of water. He had to help him sit up to drink it but was relieved to see that his brother had at least recovered enough to hold the mug himself. 

“Why?” Aramis asked after he finished the water and handed the mug back to Porthos.

“Why what?” Porthos asked, not understanding.

“Why did you stay?” Aramis asked again. 

Porthos swallowed and looked away. He could feel those dark eyes boring into him and knew he had to answer. The fact that Aramis would even think to ask him such a thing hurt, though. Finally, he decided on the simple truth. “You are my brother. Where else would I be?”

Aramis didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t need to. Porthos could almost see the wheels turning as he took in what he had said. He only hoped it helped the man to understand that, no matter what, his brothers were there for him and they always would be. 

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

“So,” d’Artagnan said as he sat down next to Athos on the steps leading up to Treville’s office. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” Athos replied as he looked off toward the front gate. He had told Porthos not to let Aramis’ words get to him, that the man had been through a horrific ordeal and was not thinking clearly. He only wished he could follow his own advice. For when Aramis had asked who had come for him as if he had no idea, as if the thought of his brothers coming for him was completely outside the realm of possibility, it had been like a kick in the stomach. Had they truly failed their brother so completely? Did their brotherhood mean nothing to Aramis any longer? Or did he simply think himself no longer a part of it? Did he think young d’Artagnan was somehow his replacement?

“Are you certain?” d’Artagnan asked, breaking into his thoughts. “I only ask because you are quite clearly dwelling on something and I doubt it is how much wine you have left in your quarters.”

“He thought we weren’t coming for him,” Athos said, the pain in his words unmistakable.

“You told Porthos he was overwrought,” d’Artagnan pointed out.

“He was. That doesn’t change what he said or why he said it,” Athos countered.

“You… are not wrong,” d’Artagnan said with a sigh. “My only advice in this is to talk to him. Do not allow this, whatever it is, to fester and grow.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that until he is stronger,” Athos said wearily. “He does not need anything else taxing him right now. He has enough to contend with as it is.”

“Just don’t let it go too long. We don’t know his prognosis yet. He may come to need us all quite dearly. He needs to know he still has brothers.”

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

“How is he?” Athos asked softly when he came to check on Aramis. Porthos was still perched in his chair, standing guard over their brother like a gargoyle made flesh. Athos had expected no different. He knew how much Aramis’ words had hurt Porthos, wounding him in a way that no one save Aramis would be able to heal. The worst part was, Aramis had not spoken out of anger or spite. He had genuinely believed what he had said. That, more than anything, pained Porthos the most.

“About the same,” Porthos said, his voiced etched with fatigue. “He woke up for a little bit this morning. Wanted to know why I was still here.”

“Do not despair, brother,” Athos said, grasping Porthos’ shoulder and squeezing. “We shall get to the root of this and we shall fix it. I know patience is not one of your strongest qualities but in this you must be. He cannot bear any further stress. We must be mindful of that. We will fix this, but we will not do so in an instant.”

“I’m tryin’, Athos,” Porthos said. “And I think I know part of it, at least part of what’s got his head all turned around. It’s that business with Charon. He thinks I’m angry with him over it. I’m not, though. I tried to tell him that, to explain it, but every time I tried I couldn’t get the words out.”

“Well, I am sure you will find the words this time,” Athos said, relieved they at least knew part of what had led Aramis to doubt them so. He knew it wasn’t the whole of it for Aramis had been equally doubtful of him. He had tried to think of what he might have done to lead the man to such a conclusion but the only thing he had come up with was the business with Marsac and the Captain. 

Athos was aware of how badly they had let their brother down but Aramis never seemed to hold it against them. Then again, Aramis never held anything against anyone except the Cardinal. Even Treville as obviously complicit as he was in the deaths of Aramis’ comrades, did not invoke the man’s ire now that things were over and done with.

He recalled their reaction to Agnes, the jibes they had thrown his way about seducing yet another woman. They had not meant anything hurtful by them but, all things considered, Athos could see where Aramis might feel differently. As it was, Athos could remember the flash of hurt in Aramis’ eyes when they had told him to take d’Artagnan with him rather than accompanying him themselves to her farm. Their obvious displeasure when he had taken it upon himself to help the woman had only made it worse. Athos realized now they should have stopped to ask themselves why Aramis had gone off alone, why he had not turned to them for help. Instead, they had chastised him, calling him a fool in front of the very woman he was risking his life to help and making him seem incompetent to boot. No wonder Aramis did not think they were coming for him. 

When Aramis awoke again, he was surprised to find Porthos fast asleep sitting next to him. He frowned, unsure what to make of it when the soft clearing of a throat caught his attention. Snapping his head to the side, he saw Athos sitting beside his bed watching him. If he had been puzzled by Porthos’ continued presence at his side he was even more so by Athos. He had thought his brothers had written him off, jumping at the chance to be rid of him. Their actions, however, said anything but that. 

“How are you feeling?” Athos asked, his voice pitched low. He had read the bewilderment in Aramis’ eyes and it tore at him. Still, he knew his brother had been through a horrific ordeal and was somewhat fragile at the moment. That was why he kept his voice low and his movements slow and obvious. 

Aramis thought for moment, taking stock of himself. His back still ached but less so. The painful cramps in his arms had finally subsided. His feet, the worst of his injuries, were… numb. That realization sent a wild frisson of panic through him and he looked at Athos, wide-eyed and afraid.

“Easy, brother,” Athos said, coming to sit at his bedside at once. “You are safe.”

“My feet,” Aramis said, suddenly feeling sick as all of the implications of his injuries ran through his mind. “I cannot feel them. Athos…”

“It’s alright,” Athos said quickly. “They… they are still there. The salve d’Artagnan has been applying, it has a numbing agent in it. The doctor, he said they would be quite painful.”

“Oh thank God,” Aramis said. The relief that washed over him was so great it brought tears to his eyes. To lose his feet, he could not even fathom such a thing. In truth, he would rather they left him to the rats if that was to be his fate.

“We have been treating them,” Athos went on. “Well, d’Artagnan has. Porthos and I… the sight… to see you so badly hurt…” Athos shook himself and went on. “The doctor said to change the bandages twice a day and put the salve on them. He said to watch in case they started to… to blacken…”

“They have not, have they?” Aramis asked, suddenly scared again.

“No,” Athos replied at once. “No, we have been keeping a close eye on that. D’Artagnan says they are looking better, that less fluid is seeping from them. The scars, though… He is not sure…”

“He is not sure how much feeling I will have in them,” Aramis finished for him. “He is correct. If the scarring is too extensive then once it heals I will likely have little if any feeling in them.”

“It is only the soles of your feet, though,” Athos said, trying to offer Aramis some hope. “The rest are fine except for a few bites. Your toes suffered the worst of those. There is one that, well, there is not much left of it.”

“Ah,” Aramis said, swallowing against the bile suddenly filling his mouth. “Is the bone intact or did the doctor remove it?”

“Some of it is. He had to cut the end off. He said it would never heal and would only be another way for infection to set in. We did not want to let him, but…”

“No, you did the right thing,” Aramis told him, taking pity on his brother. He could see how much this weighed on Athos though he could not understand why. Still, he would not have him feel guilty. “It will throw off my balance a bit until I grow accustomed to it but that is all. That is assuming, of course, that I am able to walk at all.”

“You will,” Porthos said, startling both men. “You will walk again, brother.”

“You don’t know that,” Aramis replied. “We don’t even know if I will keep my feet, let alone how much use I will have from them. If it comes to that… If they must be removed…”

“Aramis?”

“Don’t let him,” Aramis said looking back and forth between Athos and Porthos. “Do not let him cripple me. Better to face death than become bedridden and useless.”

“That will not be your fate,” Athos said, his heart twisting at his brother’s words. “Even if it came to pass, that would still not be your fate. You could never be useless.”

“Perhaps not,” Aramis conceded not wanting to argue the point. “But I would certainly be a burden and that is something I would rather not happen either.”

“Caring for my brother could never be a burden,” Athos said frowning darkly. “Would you think it a burden if our positions were reversed?”

“Of course not,” Aramis replied. “But we both know that…” Aramis trailed off. He didn’t want to sound like he was whining. He wasn’t, not really. He understood that he had displeased his brothers time and again of late. Ever since Marsac had shown up and turned his world upside down. Athos had been livid with him over pursuing the matter, barely even acknowledging his presence for days after Marsac’s death. His killing of Charon only made it worse, pushing Porthos away from him as well and destroying his tentative hope for something more with the man. 

The only one of his brothers he had not managed to alienate was d’Artagnan. That would come soon enough, though. Once the lad realized that his brothers wanted nothing to do with him, that he would have to choose between him and the others, well it would not be much of a choice. Athos was the boy’s mentor. D’Artagnan would always choose him.

“We both know what?” Athos finally asked when Aramis failed to speak again.

Aramis looked at him, a bit taken aback by the question. Surely Athos wasn’t going to make him say it aloud. One look at the man told him that he most certainly was. Taking a deep breath, Aramis drew up what small bit of dignity he still possessed and wrapped it around himself like a cloak.

“We both know that you are not pleased with me,” Aramis said as dispassionately as he could. “You have not been since the Duke of Savoy came to Paris. Just as my killing of Charon ended any remaining friendship between Porthos and I, my questioning of the Captain did so with you. Why you still tolerate my company, I have no idea.”

“What?” Athos gasped, too confounded to speak for a moment. “Aramis…”

“You killing Charon didn’t end anything,” Porthos said, interrupting Athos. “I know you didn’t set out to do it. I know you were just protecting me.”

“He was your best friend and I killed him. How can you…”

“Charon wasn’t my best friend,” Porthos told him. “He may have been one of my oldest friends but that was all. If he was my best friend I would never have left him behind in the Court when I left. My best friend… my best friend is laying here in front of me looking at me like he’s never seen me before.”

“Porthos…” Aramis didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand. If Porthos was telling the truth then why had they been acting so put out with him of late? 

“I’m sorry, brother,” Porthos went on. “I wasn’t there for you when you needed me and that shamed me. So much so that I couldn’t face you afterwards. Because even though I failed you, when it was me on the line, you were right there fighting for me tooth and nail. I don’t deserve you and that’s why I been so distant.”

“Porthos is right,” Athos said, finally finding his voice again. “I was not there for you as I should have been. Treville is my commanding officer, but I do not follow him blindly. I knew there was more to Savoy than he was admitting to yet I was loathe to press him on it. 

“I know what it is like to make a mistake, to trust somebody you should not. I know what it is like to have to bury someone because of that, too. I had no wish for this ghost to come back and haunt him yet again, but you were right. And I should have listened to you.”

When d’Artagnan arrived he was greeted by the strained plateau his brothers had reached. Aramis, for his part, was having a hard time believing what his brothers were telling him. It was not that he thought them lying. It was more that he thought them feeling guilty and that was exactly what he did not want. He had no wish for them to keep him by their side out of guilt. Even if he did make a full recovery, he did not want that. Yet there was little he could do about it. Saying anything would only add to their guilt, assuming that was what this was all about. 

As for Athos, he was at a loss. He could tell Aramis did not believe them, at least not completely. Athos supposed he could understand it. After all, he had deliberately turned his back on the man. Expecting Aramis to believe his contrition now was optimistic to the point of foolhardiness. He was not quite sure what was fueling his mistrust of Porthos’ words, though. He could understand the issue with Charon creating doubt but Porthos had told him that he was mistaken, that no harm had been done to the bond between them, yet Aramis did not seem to believe it. Athos had to wonder if it was the supposed loss of what had been building between them that caused Aramis such pain. He was not blind. He had seen the look in his brothers’ eyes when they looked at one another. He now recalled the look of loss, of abject misery, that had flitted across Aramis’ face after the death of Charon. Yet his brother had said nothing, hiding his hurt away under a laugh and a devilish smile as he always did.

Porthos was just as confounded as Athos, if not more so. He thought his words to Aramis about Charon would have helped ease the man’s mind but they seemed to do the opposite. It hurt to know that Aramis did not believe his words. There was a time, not too long ago, when Aramis would have believed him if he said the sky was green. Now his brother looked on even the truth with an air of caution. He only had himself to blame, he knew. If he had spoken sooner, had told Aramis the truth of it, of how he felt, they would not be here now. 

Shaking his head at the three obstinate men before him, d’Artagnan began laying out the supplies to change the bandages on Aramis’ feet. He glanced up at the man as he sat at the foot of the bed apprehensively. He had never done this with Aramis awake before. He was not sure how painful it might be for his brother.

“What is it?” Aramis asked, noticing the look of worry that suddenly clouded the young man’s face.

“I have never changed the bandages when you were awake,” d’Artagnan told him honestly. “I am not sure how painful the process might be.”

“I doubt I will feel much,” Aramis said. “In truth, I would welcome any feeling in my feet right now, even pain.”

“You do not feel anything?” d’Artagnan asked, surprised. He knew Aramis still had at least some sensation for the man would jerk back reflexively when he touched certain areas.

“No,” Aramis replied softly.

“That is likely just the numbing agent from the salve,” d’Artagnan told him. “I know you have at least some feeling, though how much is uncertain.”

“How do you know that?” Athos asked.

“His foot jerks when I touch him in certain places,” d’Artagnan shrugged as he began to carefully unwind the bandages from around Aramis’ left foot. He always started with the left. It was the most badly damaged and he wanted to get it over and done with first.

“It does?” Aramis asked, unable to conceal the excitement in his voice. He had not known this. If his foot still responded in such a way then the nerves were not all dead. He still had a chance. “Is it both feet or just the one?”

“It is both of them, though they react in different places. One may be just a reaction to the feel of my hand but the other… I am fairly sure it is due to some pain I am causing you.”

“Why do you say that?” Aramis asked.

“Because it is your left foot near your smallest toe,” d’Artagnan explained. “The one that the rats… that is nearly gone.”

Aramis held his breath as d’Artagnan uncovered his left foot. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, not ready yet to see how much damage had been done and wanting to see if he could feel anything. He knew if he was watching there was a chance that he could deceive himself into believing he had felt something because he was expecting to. This way, he would have no way of knowing what to expect.

“Okay, I’m just going to clean it a bit,” d’Artagnan said, pleased by the discernible improvement he saw. “There’s much less fluid today and the swelling seems to be going down.”

“Any sign of infection?” Aramis asked.

“No,” d’Artagnan answered. “No signs of darkening or heat. At least not any more heat than there has been. I’ll try to be as careful as I can.”

“Do what you need to,” Aramis said. 

As gently as he could, d’Artagnan began cleaning the sole of Aramis’ foot. When Aramis gasped and jerked his foot back, d’Artagnan grabbed him by the ankle, not wanting him to hit his foot on anything and injure himself further.

“I felt that,” Aramis said, stunned. He had been preparing himself for the worst, for not being able to feel d’Artagnan’s ministrations at all. To feel the dampened cloth run all along his sole was enough to make him giddy with relief.

“Did I hurt you?” D’Artagnan asked.

“No. No, not at all. But I could feel you, could feel the flannel along my foot. I... I had not expected...”

“It’s okay,” d’Artagnan said, understanding. “Let me finish with the rest of your foot then I’ll work on your toe.”

“Yes. Yes, anything you like.”

D’Artagnan smiled at him then turned his attention back to the task at hand. He could feel the palpable relief in the room, all of his brothers grateful that Aramis had at least partial feeling in his foot. It gave them hope that he really could get past all of this and heal. Hope, d’Artagnan thought, was the one thing they needed most right now.

By the time d’Artagnan had seen to both his feet and covered them in fresh bandages, Aramis had broken out in a sweat. He wouldn’t have thought something as small as a little toe could cause such pain. D’Artagnan had needed to lance the wound to drain it, though he had assured him the amount of fluid had been significantly less and there was no foul odor associated with it. It made the pain infinitely easier to bear, knowing he was not going to lose yet another piece of himself because of all this. 

“I shall prepare you something for the pain,” Athos said once d’Artagnan was finished. He had watched worriedly as Aramis had grown pinched then began to sweat as he forced himself to lie still under the lad’s hands. As d’Artagnan had said, this was the first time he had done this with Aramis awake and the difference was profound. 

“That’s alright,” Aramis said as he focused on controlling his breathing. “It will abate in a few minutes.”

“We don’t want you hurting,” Porthos said.

“I know,” Aramis smiled softly. “But as I said, I would rather the pain than no feeling at all. At least this way I know they are still there.”

“As you wish, brother,” Athos relented. As much as he hated seeing Aramis in pain, he could understand his feelings. If it was him that was in danger of losing both his feet, he would grasp onto anything that gave him hope to the contrary as well.

~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~D~

Aramis wasn’t surprised this time when he woke near dawn and found Porthos asleep in the chair beside his bed. When his brother refused to move from his side all that day, Aramis had slowly accepted that he meant what he had said, at least about being there for him. It made him wonder if, perhaps, Porthos was telling the truth about Charon as well. 

Aramis quashed the blooming hope in his chest ruthlessly. It was one thing to believe his brothers had not forsaken him. It was quite another to think that what he had hoped for, longed for, with Porthos was anything but a fantasy on his part. Even if his brother was open to such a thing, he himself was wholly undeserving of the man. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Porthos said, his soft voice loud in the otherwise still room.

“I was,” Aramis shrugged. “Then I awoke.”

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“That is not necessary. I am simply... simply grateful that all I thought lost to me... isn’t.”

“Why do I think you are referring to more than simply the state of your injuries?”

“My injuries, while gruesome to contemplate, are not the thing that I despaired of most.”

Porthos rose from his chair and and sat down on the side of Aramis’ bed. Reaching down, he took his brother’s hand in his and held it. “Did you truly think us lost to you? Did you truly think I...?”

“Yes,” Aramis replied. “After all I had done... I know what a disappointment I have become, what a... a burden.”

“Now stop right there,” Porthos said. “You are not a disappointment and you could _never_ be a burden.”

Aramis smiled at him, though there was an edge of sadness to it. It was such a relief to know that he had not lost his brothers yet, at the same time, he could not help but mourn the death of his dream. 

“What is it?” Porthos asked after a minute, though he thought he knew. He had seen the relief on Aramis’ face as well as the sadness. 

“Nothing,” Aramis shook his head, chastising himself for his greed. He still had his brothers. He should be grateful not forever wanting that which was beyond his reach.

“I do not think you’re being honest with me,” Porthos said gently.

“It is nothing,” Aramis insisted. “Merely... wishful thinking. You have no idea how... how glad I am to know that I have not driven the lot of you off.”

“Stop that,” Porthos admonished. “You could never drive us off. We... we love you, Aramis.”

Aramis had to turn away then, blinking his eyes rapidly to clear them. Oh how he longed to hear those words from Porthos. He had been in love with his brother for ages, since long before Marsac and Charon turned everything on its ear. He had even started to think that Porthos might return his feelings. Now... now he was just happy to know he still had a brother. It was not what he wanted, but it would be enough. He would make it enough.

“Aramis,” Porthos huffed fondly, shaking his head in exasperation. Unsure what else to do to get through to the stubborn man, he glanced around the infirmary to confirm they were alone. Knowing he was not likely to get a better time, Porthos leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Aramis’ lips.

When Porthos pulled back, he saw Aramis looking at him, awestruck. He watched as the man took his free hand and touched his lips where Porthos had just kissed him. Encouraged by the lack of disgust he saw, Porthos started to lean forward again only for Aramis to press his hand to the center of his chest, stopping him.

“What is it?” Porthos asked, suddenly worried.

“Why?” Aramis asked in return. It was the single thing that ran through his mind. Why?

Porthos relaxed then, understanding why Aramis had stopped him. Of course the stubborn man would not believe him. Aramis always took some convincing. That was fine with Porthos. He was more than prepared to spend however long it took to make this man understand how much he cared for him.

“Why?” Porthos repeated patiently. “Because I love you, my dear friend. I love you and not simply as my brother. I... I did not realize it at first. I did not let myself realize it. But I am done being a coward. I nearly lost you and you never would have known that your feelings were returned. I will not take such a chance again.”

Moving slowly, Porthos leaned toward Aramis, making his intent clear and giving his brother ample time to pull away if this was not what he wanted. He paused for a moment, giving Aramis once last chance, then closed the last few inches between them.

Aramis could not hold back his moan when Porthos pressed their lips together for the second time. It was everything he had ever wanted and for a moment he was afraid he was dreaming again. Then Porthos was licking over the seam of his lips and Aramis forgot everything except for the taste and scent and feel of this man.

With no small amount of reluctance, Porthos pulled back. He rested his forehead against Aramis’ and panted as he tried to regain his control. He could feel his brother shaking and rubbed up and down his arm with his free hand, soothing him as best he could. 

“I love you,” Porthos whispered, the words seeming to flow out of his mouth and into Aramis’. “I love you as a brother and I love you as... as a lover. I would have that with you, if you would see fit to have me.”

“See fit?” Aramis gasped. “Porthos, I... I love you so much. I have for... for ages.”

“That is good to hear. We’ll figure this out, what there is between us, what we both want. But you need to get your strength back first, love.”

Athos stood in the doorway watching the pair on the bed. He could tell from the way they were sitting that something had changed between them. He was glad for it. His brothers deserved to be happy and he would do everything in his power to ensure that they were. After, of course, he found a way to make his own lapse up to Aramis. That, however, was work for another day. Today, his brothers had other things to do.

End.


End file.
